


A Duet Takes Two

by orphan_account



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: BBC, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:09:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been a year since Sherlock jumped, and John Watson is still struggling to recover from the loss of his best friend. When his therapist recommends musical therapy after hearing that he knew clarinet, John takes up the instrument again. It goes well until he finds a piece by Tchaikovsky-Romeo and Juliet Overture-written as a clarinet and violin duet. It's then that John decides he needs his partner back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Music Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter in the story. I hope you enjoy it! Comments are much appreciated and help me make the story better for you!

“I hate coming here.” I said almost coldly, staring blankly out the window of Ella’s office. It was raining again; a cold, sheet-like, icy rain that had been pounding London for the past three days without stopping.

 

“I know, but talking is part of the healing process John.” Ella said quietly, her voice soothing. I looked at her, my eyes narrowed into a glare.

 

“I don’t think this has helped me any.” I growled.

 

“You started eating again.” she said pointedly, and I sighed heavily. In the weeks following Sherlock’s death, I had stopped eating almost entirely. I had lost a significant amount of weight, my skin had gone sallow, and my hands shook almost constantly with a desperate need for food, but I continued to ignore my body’s demands until I fainted at the surgery. I was hospitalized for a week, and when I was released Sarah told me I couldn’t go back to work unless I swore to get help from Ella.

 

“I don’t want to. I just do it so that I don’t lose my job.” I mumbled. Ella sighed heavily.

 

“John, are you trying to punish yourself?” Ella asked.

 

“What kind of doctor can’t save the life of their best friend?” I replied.

 

***___***

 

“It’s been a year Sherlock.” I croaked, standing a few feet away from the gleaming gravestone. The cold marble stood silent as it always did, and I sighed heavily before shifting so I was sitting with my back against the stone. There was a faint drizzle that brought a chill to the air and stung my face as it fell, but I ignored my discomfort and sat there, waiting. It was a habit now. Every week I would go to the grave, always on a Saturday, and sit there. I would sit there, waiting, hoping, even praying, that Sherlock wouldn’t be dead. My heart ached with the need for my best friend.

 

“Come on you selfish git, I know you can’t be dead…just…p-please.” I stammered, a few hot tears spilling onto my cheeks. I leaned my head against the gravestone and let the tears flow freely after I realized they were there.

 

***___***

 

I stood there, hidden in the shadows of the trees near my grave, and sighed heavily. John looked sickly, forlorn, even lost, and it had been this way for twelve months. When I saw that he had begun to cry something in my chest lurched and I had to turn away in order to keep myself from running over and telling him that I was alive. His life was still in danger, and until Mycroft and myself rounded up the remainders of Moriarty’s men, it would remain so.

 

Sherlock Holmes would have to be dead until John Watson was one hundred percent safe.

 

***___***

 

“You said that you know how to play clarinet, is that right?” Ella asked. I shrugged.

 

“I wasn’t too bad at it, I suppose.” I said. Ella smiled quietly and pulled something out from behind her desk. It was a clarinet case.

 

“Musical therapy. It’s been proven to work.” Ella explained as I eyed the case with confusion.

 

“I’m not playing that in here.” I said.

 

“Take it home and play it there then. Let me know how it works.” Ella said warmly. I raised my eyebrows.

 

“Isn’t it yours though?” I asked quietly.

 

“No, it’s yours now. I actually found it at a pawn shop the other day. Twenty pounds was all they were asking for it. I had it checked.  It works.” Ella explained, and I felt my jaw drop slightly before I snapped my teeth back together with a clack.

 

“Thanks.” I said stiffly before standing up and taking the case. “Well, see you next week then.” I practically grunted before hurrying out of the office.

 

***___***

 

I stared at the open clarinet case for hours once I got back to my flat. My flat was stiff, cold, empty, and felt nothing like home. I had moved out of 221B a few weeks after S had passed away. I couldn’t bear the constant reminders of the man all around me. Mrs. Hudson swore she would never rent it out again, and instead fixed up the basement flat to earn some more money. The clarinet was nice, old, wooden, the pads freshly redone, and the corks in good shape. It was almost alluring, how it sat there absorbing the harsh artificial lighting of the flat. I slowly reached out and placed one finger on the instrument before I took it out of the case and put it together piece by piece. There was a box of unopened reeds in the case, and so I took one out, wet it, and then put it on the mouthpiece and tightened the ligature.

 

The moment the instrument touched my lips I felt like I was in a different place. I began running through scales. I was sluggish, and my tone was a bit harsher than it had once been, but I hadn’t forgotten how to play.

 

There was finally something right in my world again.

 


	2. Glimpses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock begins to ease John into the idea that he's alive. John doesn't take it well.

I began rummaging through my old stuff rather quickly after getting the clarinet from Ella. I found a thick folder of clarinet music buried between high school yearbooks and summer reading assignments, and within that folder was my salvation.

  
Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Handel. The list went on and on, each composer writing my emotions out in the music before me. As the weeks progressed, I became better and better, and I began to feel somewhat human again. I was actually able to smile at patients without looking like I was in pain, and I felt the pain in my leg dulling somewhat. I began to develop an appetite, and I even started to drink tea again. The music was healing me.  
That was until I found it. The piece. The piece had haunted me throughout secondary school because I had purchased it with the intent of asking one of the violinists to play it with me for our senior concert. She was beautiful and talented, and everything I wanted at the time. However, I became too self-conscious and never played the piece with her or anyone for that matter.

  
Tchaikovsky’s _Romeo and Juliet Overture_. I took the piece out with trembling hands and had to stifle a sob. Now there was only one violinist I would ever want to play the piece with, and that was S. I needed him so desperately in my life, and despite my most valiant attempts to ignore the hole in my chest, there was no denying it any longer. He was my partner, my best friend, and the most important person in my life to me. I was completely lost without him.  
With trembling fingers I placed the piece on the stand and began to play it, but something wasn’t right. It was bleak, uncoordinated, almost stilted without the ringing violin to accompany or call back to the warm, mellow tones of the clarinet. The piece was truly meant for two, and I was one man. In a way, it described my life now. A piece written for two that had forever lost the second part. A call but no answer, and a song that only sounded half alive. Hot tears caressed my cheeks for what felt like the millionth time in the past year, and I brushed them away before I pressed on. When I completed the piece, the sound of the clarinet hung in the air for just a brief moment, as solemn and lonely sounding as I felt.

  
I needed my partner back.

  
***___***

  
I sat in the freezing cold, abandoned building across from John’s lonely, run down flat and hugged my arms around my knees before I heard something strange.  
He was playing the clarinet. It had been the first time in weeks that I had allowed myself to be near him, and this was a different change. The piece was strange however. It sounded like a duet, but there was no second part. When I saw John pass the window with the clarinet in hand a little while later, he was wiping his eyes. I felt a lump form in my own throat as I watched him slowly and gently clean the instrument and put it away before shutting the case. He rested one firm hand on the top of the case and hung his head before the light was turned off and he went to bed.

  
John was just as lonely and miserable as I was, and it was entirely my fault.

  
***___***

 

“Evidence has emerged that criminal mastermind Jim Moriarty, previously believed to be the figment of fraudulent detective Sherlock Holmes, was actually a real person. The evidence has been uncovered by unnamed members of the British government, who decided to develop the case after receiving a tip that Holmes’ suicide was actually forced, and that the man lying dead on the roof from which Holmes had jumped was actually the madman himself. Holmes’ phone was recovered a short while ago, and it contained a recording of a confession from Moriarty himself. Further investigations led to a staggering amount of evidence indicating that Sherlock Holmes had been telling the truth.”

  
The cup of coffee I had been holding slipped from my fingers and exploded on the floor of the surgery as I walked in for my morning shift. My eyes snapped to the telly where the female reporter was reading on about the evidence supporting Moriarty’s existence. I let out a triumphant yell, and then had to smile apologetically at some of the rather startled patients in the waiting room.

  
“Sarah, Sarah did you hear?! SHERLOCK WASN’T A FRAUD!” I screamed, bolting into her office. Sarah smiled warmly and nodded.

  
“Yes, I heard. I am so happy for you John. Perhaps this will give you some of the rest you need.” Sarah said before turning back to her files.

  
***___***

  
“So do you think it’s time?” I asked.

  
“The last of Moriarty’s men are being rounded up as we speak. John’s safety should no longer be in jeopardy, so I believe it would be wise to return home. However, do not startle him. Let him catch glimpses of you in the street, then slowly but surely move until you think he is ready to see you face to face.” Mycroft said almost tiredly. I swallowed the anxiety rising in my throat and nodded before turning to leave.

  
“Oh, and Mycroft?” I asked, pausing in the doorway with my back to him.

  
“Yes?”

  
“Thank you.” I said before walking out into the cold London air.

  
***___***

  
Three days after the broadcast, I saw a man who looked incredibly like Sherlock. This spurred a panic attack which sent me to Ella almost immediately.

  
“Now repeat to me what you saw again.” Ella demanded as I sat ashen faced and trembling in the chair across from her.

  
“I saw Sherlock. Sherlock bloody Holmes. I swear to you Ella, it was him!” I squeaked. I, John Hamish Watson, soldier, army doctor, and surgeon, was squeaking.

  
“John, you and I have been over this before. Sherlock is dead. You couldn’t have seen him.” Ella said gently, but I shook my head so quickly my hair flopped back and forth.

  
“No Ella. It was him. I swear to you.” I said firmly.

  
That day I left with a prescription to prevent hallucinations.

  
***___***  
  
Three weeks later I saw him again, and I knew that this time it could not have been a figment of my imagination. The drugs prevented me from hallucinating, and so I took slow, steadying breaths before hustling back to my flat. I bolted the door behind me and sunk to the floor in tears. I knew it couldn’t be Sherlock, but I didn’t know who could be haunting me like this. So instead of dwelling on it, I picked up the clarinet, which rarely met the inside of its case now, and began to play until I calmed.  
  
***___***  
  
“It’s no use Mycroft. Every time I let him see me he dissolves into tears or has a panic attack.” I growled, slamming my hand against the bookshelf in the back room of Mycroft’s office.  
  
“Sherlock calm yourself. The man has been through much trauma. You’re supposed to be dead, remember? This is going to take a lot of convincing on your part. You have to be gentle, but I think that the only way to prove that you are alive is to go see him in person.” Mycroft said.  
  
My heart rocketed into my throat and I nodded before leaving the room.  
  
I was going to see John Watson for the first time in over a year.


	3. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes to John, and John doesn't react well to his friend being alive after all this time.

It was half past seven when I heard a knock at my door. _Strange,_ I thought, _I usually don’t get visitors._ So I put down my cup of tea and limped over to the door, clutching at my cane heavily before I peered into the door scope to see who was there.

 

My cane clattered to the ground as I took in the lanky frame, pale skin, dark curls, and startling blue eyes that stared at the door nervously. My fingers flew to the chain lock and opened it as quickly as they could while they were trembling, and I unlocked the door before yanking it open.

 

“Hello John.” Sherlock said quietly, and I somehow managed to utter a small “fuck” before I hit the ground, my vision fading to black.

 

***___***

 

“He’s been out for the past five and a half minutes! What am I supposed to do?” I heard somebody hiss angrily as my vision slowly faded in and out on its way back to normal. I blinked rapidly and sat up before my eyes sought out the reason I had fainted in the first place.

 

When I caught sight of the black pea coat whipping about angrily as the man wearing it paced, I almost fainted again.

 

“W-who the hell are you?” I stammered.

 

“He’s awake, I have to go.” the man said before hanging up the phone. I bolted upright, apparently having been moved from the floor to the sofa, and I grabbed the nearest object to me, a pillow, to protect myself.

 

“John, relax.” the man said, and I shook my head fiercely.

 

“No. No, no, no. You cannot be real. I took my pill today!” I cried before leaping up and running into the kitchen. I scrambled for my medication bottle and counted the pills to make sure that I had in fact taken the anti-hallucinogen. Hands shaking, I dropped the bottle on the counter and spun around again to face the man in my apartment.

 

“Who are you?” I whispered, eyes searching.

 

***___***

 

My heart lurched as I saw John sprint into the kitchen, desperate for me to be a hallucination, something that could be vanished with a few pills. When he turned again and his deep blue-grey eyes searched my face pleadingly, I had to take a slow breath to fight off tears.

 

“I’m me. Sherlock.” I said, my voice coming out a bit more hoarse than intended. John shook his head again.

 

“You can’t be. You died. I _saw_ you die. I felt your pulse. I went to your funeral.” John stammered, backing up into the counter and plastering himself against it as best as he could. I took a step forward and shook my head.

 

“No John. I thought you would understand…I thought you’d…it was all just a trick. It was all just a magic trick.” I whispered, and at this John’s eyes widened.

 

“Y-you…whatever you are…get out. Leave. Now!” John said, his voice rising as his face flushed with anger.

 

“Why?” I asked.

 

“How _dare_ you come in here and pretend that y-you’re _him_? What sort of sick game are you playing?” John spat, his hands ceasing their shaking as they balled up into fists of rage.

 

“I’m not pretending John! I am _alive_.” I said, motioning for him to calm down with my hands.

 

“LIAR!” John screamed, sinking to the floor. He then let out a horrible sob and buried his face in his hands. I sank to my knees and scooted until I was inches from him and fought off tears of my own.

 

“John please…” I pleaded, reaching out and placing a hand on John’s knee. The man stiffened under my touch and he looked up, eyes red rimmed and tears making tracks down his face.

 

“What are you?”

 

“I’m Sherlock.”

 

John stared at me for a long moment and then reached out slowly. His fingers found my jugular and then he took my pulse. After examining my eyes closely, the hand retracted and I offered a weak smile.

 

And then John punched me in the face.

 

***___***

 

My fist stung as it collided with Sherlock’s face, and I let out an angry sob as I stood up again.

 

“You absolute _bastard!_ ” I roared, punching Sherlock again as he tried to stand up again. Sherlock looked up at me and for the first time in my life, he looked frightened.

 

“John please, let me explain!” Sherlock cried, but I shook my head and shoved him away from me.

 

“No! You let me believe you were _dead_ for over a year! You let me go _insane_!” I screamed, slamming my hands against his chest. He stumbled and tripped over an armchair before scrambling towards the door.

 

“John it was for your safety!” Sherlock said, and I paused.

 

“I was safe. Moriarty was dead!” I growled.

 

“His assassins were told to take you out even after his death if I somehow showed hide or tail ever again. I couldn’t tell you I was alive until Mycroft and I rounded up all of Moriarty’s men and jailed them.” Sherlock said, his voice steady and his eyes reflecting nothing but the truth. The anger abated and I suddenly felt exhausted. I sunk into the armchair Sherlock had tripped over and put my head in my hands.

 

“You left me Sherlock. You left me alone.” I almost whimpered after a few minutes.

 

“I know, and I am so sorry John. I never meant to hurt you.” Sherlock whispered, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. I shrugged him off but some of the pain began to recede.

 

“You know I won’t be able to trust you for a long time again.” I said quietly..

 

“Yes.” Sherlock replied.

 

“Good.”

 

“Let’s go home John.”

 

“Home?”

 

“221B. I believe Mrs. Hudson still has it available.”

 

“You are unbelievable.”

 

“Can we?”

 

“Yes, let’s go home.”


	4. Deductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock realizes what he's done to John by faking his death. John realizes that the last year probably had taken a toll on Sherlock too.

To say that Mrs. Hudson almost had a heart attack was an understatement. I was amazed at John’s ability to calm the poor dear down, and I did feel quite horrible about how upset she was. When I finally managed to explain to the both of them what had happened and why I had done what I did, there were quite a bit of tears and then all was forgiven. At least on Mrs. Hudson’s end. John still looked at me like he wanted to hit me, but I believe he refrained for Mrs. Hudson’s sake.

When we finally got into 221B I found that everything was exactly as I had left it the day before ‘the fall’, as John refers to it. I was rather surprised, given the fact that renting the flat was Mrs. Hudson’s source of income, but then she introduced us to our lovely new neighbors downstairs. They’re a rather amiable couple, two newlyweds trying to make their way in London.

As soon as Mrs. Hudson left, John sank into his favorite armchair and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. I stood rather awkwardly for a few moments, unsure of what to do, before I strode into the kitchen and looked for the kettle. _Of course John took the kettle you idiot_ , I thought as I slammed through the cabinets, unable to find the thing. I settled for a regular pot, scoured it with hot water and a rather large amount of soap because I didn’t know if I had put something rather unsanitary in it at one point, and then set it on the stove to boil.

“What are you doing?” I heard John sigh from the other room.

“Making tea.” I said.

“Why?” John asked, rather irritated.

“Because you like tea and you always drink it when you’re distraught.” I replied.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I swore off of tea about a year ago.” John grumbled, and I turned the stove off before walking back into the sitting room.

“Why?” I asked, leaning against the doorway.

“Because it reminded me of here.” John answered stonily. I swallowed roughly; I had missed a few things in my half-assed examinations of my friend. Of course, it was hard to deduce properly from blocks away, or from shady, cold, attics of run-down apartment buildings.

“I…I didn’t know.” I offered rather weakly.

“Didn’t know what? That by faking your death you sent me spiraling into depression? That I literally could not bring myself to choke down food for weeks? That I cut out my family and all of my friends? That I tried to reenlist in the army so that I could go to Afghanistan and hopefully _die_ that time?” John cried, leaping up out of the chair and hobbling over to the window. His shoulders were hunched, and I had to close my eyes for a moment to gather myself.

It was painful to deduce John this time. Loose jumper indicated significant weight loss. Body posture, extreme depression, self-loathing. Cane, psychosomatic limp was back. Dull hair, depression yet again. Pale skin, lack of exposure to sunlight, probably only went outdoors to go to the surgery and back. Everything about my friend screamed depression and defeat, and it hit me like a truck when I realized that all of it was because of me.

I had destroyed my best friend.

***___***

I stood there, staring out the window, knowing Sherlock’s silence meant he was deducing me, trying to see if I was really telling the truth. I heard a stifled sob and knew that he had seen the signs of my decay just as I had seen them, but unlike me, he could not ignore them. The sound broke through the wall of rage that had built up inside me and I turned slowly. Sherlock was pressing his fist into his mouth and glaring angrily as tears spilled down his cheeks. He obviously was not fond of losing control of himself like that.

“Sherlock…” I started, but he shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut tightly.

“I am so sorry.” was all he said around his fist before he tightened his lips around his knuckles to stifle another sob. I sighed heavily and moved closer to him, and his back stiffened as if he was expecting another punch. Instead, I placed my fingers against the bruise blooming along his pale cheekbone and then dropped my hand to his shoulder.

“It’s alright Sherlock.” I whispered, and then he did something unexpected. Sherlock lurched forward and hugged me tightly. I froze for a minute but then dropped my cane and wrapped my arms around him as well. As soon as I returned the hug Sherlock let out another sob and buried his face into my shoulder. Whatever had shifted in me moments before broke entirely at this point, and I buried my face in Sherlock’s shoulder as well, tears spilling hot and wet down my cheeks, soaking into his shirt.

***___***

I was uncertain how long we remained like that, Sherlock sobbing into my shoulder, and me sobbing into Sherlock’s, but when all was said and done, neither of us felt even remotely awkward. Exhausted, yes, but not awkward. Sherlock flopped onto the couch in a way that was so characteristically him that I suddenly found it hard to remember all of the time that he wasn’t there. A bit of anger reared up again, but I damped it down and sank into the armchair across from the couch before examining Sherlock. His long, dark eyelashes caressed his high cheekbones, eyelids covering what I knew to be bright blue-green eyes. A dark blue bruise in the shape of my fist marred his otherwise smooth left cheek. He shifted slightly, and it was then that I saw something that made a lump form in my throat.

From the temple to midway down Sherlock’s cheek was a long, jagged scar from where his head had struck the pavement. Without thinking I reached out and touched it, and Sherlock barely stirred.

“Yes, it’s real. The whole jump was real. I don’t do stunt doubles.” Sherlock mumbled, voicing the answer to the question that hadn’t even left my lips. I shut my eyes and tried to will the image of Sherlock falling out of my mind. It wasn’t the first time the memory was stuck on repeat, but this time it made me more nauseous than it had in a long time.

“Did it…hurt?” I whispered.

“Which part? The falling, or the hitting the ground, or the year of hiding and not knowing if you’d ever be able to see your friends again?” Sherlock asked, his eyes snapping open to lock onto mine.

“You…missed us?” I croaked.

“Of course I missed you. If I didn’t care enough to long for you every single day, I would have never jumped in the first place.” Sherlock said, almost sounding offended.

“I thought you don’t have friends Sherlock.” I mumbled, my face heating with shame.

“I don’t. I have one friend.” Sherlock replied.

“Then who were the others? You said ‘friends’ plural. Who else was threatened?” I asked quietly. Sherlock sighed and his eyes flickered towards the bullet pocked smiley face on the wall.

“You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade.” he finally answered.

“What? _Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson too?”_ I gasped incredulously.

“Yes. Moriarty knew that I valued Mrs. Hudson as if she was my grandmother, and that Greg has always been a…trusted third party.” Sherlock said quietly, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the sofa. It was then that I noticed I was still touching his face and I quickly withdrew my hand.

“So this whole year has been hard for you too then?”

“You have no idea John.” 


	5. You Don't Know What You've Got Till It's Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock admits he fell off the bandwagon while he was away.

“So where were you?” John asked. It had been a week since I had returned, and John was still slowly moving back into 221B. I was sprawled out on the couch staring at the ceiling, not thinking, but resting.

“I’m sorry?”

“Where were you after the fall?”

“I was…many places. I had to go after the Moriarty network. I went to the United States first. Moriarty ran a huge drug business over there, and I had to infiltrate it in order to take down their funding.” I explained. At the word ‘drug’, John visibly stiffened.

“And did you…?” John began. I sighed heavily and sat up slowly.

“Now, what you have to understand John, is that I was under a significant amount of duress…” I started, and John slapped me hard.

“You idiot!” he hissed, and I blinked wildly, my eyes stinging from the hit. The bruise on my cheek throbbed with new vigor.

“John you’ve got to stop being so physical!” I said, but John simply glared at me.

“I’ll stop being physical when you stop being a complete arse!” John snarled.

“John I…”

“Save it Sherlock! You _went back on drugs!”_ John said, his voice dropping dangerously.

“ _I’m clean now.”_ I hissed in reply, but John simply ran his hands through his short, sandy hair and groaned.

“Why? Why would you do that?” John asked, although I felt that it was less of a question directed at me and more of him thinking aloud.

“Because I didn’t know what else to do to numb the pain.” I admitted. John reeled around and stared at me.

“What?” he croaked.

“I was miserable. I had to watch you, my best friend, my _only_ friend, mourn for me when I wasn’t really dead. I had to leave everyone and everything I cared for behind because of a madman who got bored. I had to trek the globe, alone, broke half the time, changing identities every time I moved, desperately trying not to slip up so that I could keep you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade alive…it was torture. If I messed up, if I got _one thing wrong_ , everyone I cared about would be dead with the pull of a trigger.” I explained, my eyes seeking the floor. For once in my life, I was feeling shame.

“So you did drugs? How is that playing it safe Sherlock?” John asked, although there was a softer edge to his voice this time.

“I don’t know John. I just…I was desperate.” I mumbled, and John sighed before planting a firm hand on my shoulder.

“And now?” he asked. I lifted my head up and locked eyes with him.

“I’m clean.”

It wasn’t a lie either.

***___***

The fact that Sherlock had resorted to drugs to numb the pain of losing his friends was enough to completely wash away my anger. He looked so ashamed and angry with himself, and I couldn’t help but feel a bit bad for him. I at least had somebody to talk to. At the most, all Sherlock probably had was Mycroft, and he had sold Sherlock out in the first place.

“Good…good.” I said, patting his shoulder before sinking down on the couch next to him. He put his elbows on his knees and let his hands hang between his legs, and I followed suit. He glanced at me almost fearfully and I smiled just a little bit at him. He returned the small lip twitch before glancing up at the mantle.

“Glad to see Mrs. Hudson left Dyanea here.” he said. I raised an eyebrow.

“He left what?”

“Dyanea. My skull. Her name is Dyanea.” Sherlock explained, nodding towards the skull.

“You named it?” I asked.

“Of course I did. She’s a beautiful specimen really, she deserved a name.” Sherlock said smugly.

“Is she a real…” I began.

“Yes.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Good, because I wouldn’t explain it anyhow.” Sherlock grinned. We looked at each other for a minute before we burst into laughter. We laughed until our sides ached and tears rolled down my cheeks. Sherlock’s face was flushed and for the first time since he arrived his eyes had regained their mischievous gleam.

“I missed you John.” Sherlock smiled.

“I missed you too Sherlock.” I said, grinning back goofily.

***___***

_Oh if only you knew how much I missed you_ I thought as John stood up to make himself tea. I had never taken into account the saying “you don’t know what you have until it’s gone” until I was forced to leave John’s side.

It was agony. I woke up sweating, my throat raw from screaming as nightmare after nightmare of John having his brains blown out disrupted what little sleep I did get. In Ireland, one man recognized me and immediately started to talk about how he was going to give the order to kill John while I was forced to watch on CCTV.

I never enjoyed killing before that moment. My hands didn’t tremble in the aftermath as I wiped the man’s blood from my face, and I was competent enough to clean the scene of all evidence of my involvement. To anyone, it would just look like he came across the wrong mugger with a sharp knife.

“What’s with you?” John asked, returning from the kitchen with a steaming mug. I jumped, and shook my head.

“Nothing…just thinking.” I said quickly. I had decided then and there that I would never share that memory with John.

“I see.” John replied, sipping his mug thoughtfully.

That night was the first night I slept without nightmares in over a year. It was comforting, knowing that the doctor was right above me. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is chapter five!!! comments are fantastic, and thanks to the 300+ of you who have read this so far :3 and the 4 people who left me kudos <3
> 
> You guys are fantastic and the readers are really what makes writing worthwhile. Love you guys.


	6. First Case Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John catch a serial killer who targets small children. Sherlock reveals his soft spot for kids, and John comforts him.

**Three Weeks Later**

“C’mon John, we’re losing him!” Sherlock bellowed as we raced down the alleyway, taking yet another one of Sherlock’s infamous  shortcuts. I sprinted behind him and leapt over the fence blocking our way, right on Sherlock’s coattails. We were chasing a serial killer who had been responsible for the deaths of over sixteen children, none of the victims younger than three or older than eight. Rage coursed through my veins and propelled me forward until I was running faster than Sherlock. I tackled the man to the ground and pulled my gun on him, pressing the muzzle against the back of his head.

“Don’t move.” I snarled. The man went limp under me. Sherlock came trotting up, his face flushed from exertion and his eyes gleaming with pride.

“Good job John.” he said before kicking the murderer in the side.

After the police had come and rounded up the man, who had actually been on the loose ever since Sherlock’s ‘death’, Donovan paused near her car.

“Look Freak…I uh…I owe you an apology.” she began. Sherlock’s eyes widened, and I stiffened at his side, ready to leap to his defense.

“Oh do you?” he asked.

“Yeah. I made everyone here think you were a fake, but once…once you jumped and all that, the crime in this city went through the roof. I know it wasn’t you now, and I’m sorry for ever blaming you for it.” Sally admitted, and Sherlock smiled softly.

“Apology accepted Donovan. And I’m sorry for broadcasting your sexual exploits with Anderson on a regular basis.” Sherlock said. Sally’s face reddened, but she shook her head.

“I’d take that over this bastard getting away with killing more kids any day.” she said before getting into her car and driving off.

“That was surprising.” I said. Sherlock simply nodded in agreement.

“Mr. Holmes, how did you fake your death?” a reporter demanded, shoving a microphone in Sherlock’s face as we walked out of the building where the press conference releasing the details of the serial killer’s capture had been broadcasted.

“A magician never reveals his secrets. All that you need to know is that by doing so, I protected the lives of several British citizens and effectively shut down an international crime circuit started by none other than James Moriarty.” Sherlock responded emotionlessly.

“Who was being threatened by Mr. Moriarty at the time of your fall?” another reporter begged.

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock snapped before hurrying into the police car waiting for us on the street.

“Hello Sherlock.” the driver said. Sherlock scowled.

“Anderson.” Sherlock replied as Anderson pulled the car away from the sidewalk, reporters milling about hopelessly.

“So I heard Donovan apologized to you.” Anderson said, turning.

“Yes.”

“I won’t do the same.”

“I didn’t expect you to.”

“All the same, it’s good to have you back…as long as you don’t act like a psychopathic dick again.”

“I’m a sociopath.” Sherlock corrected in an almost singsongy voice. I snorted and shook my head, earning myself a small grin from Sherlock.

“Whatever.” Anderson sighed. He was quiet for the rest of the ride.

When we got back to the flat, Sherlock shut the door and promptly leaned against it, sliding onto the floor. He looked ashen, and I furrowed my brow in concern as I hung my jacket on the coat rack.

“What’s wrong Sherlock?” I asked.

“They were just kids John. Kids. Innocent, blissfully stupid little kids.” Sherlock croaked, and I felt my eyes widen.

“You mean the victims?” I asked.

“Yes. I should’ve caught him sooner!” Sherlock cried, and I kneeled down beside him.

“Sherlock, you caught him…that’s what counts.” I said soothingly, but Sherlock shook his head so violently that his curls bounced.

“No! John, I should have been here saving those sixteen children, but instead I failed to shoot Moriarty when I had the chance and now sixteen innocent children are dead!” Sherlock screamed, balling his hands into angry fists.

“Sherlock look at me!” I demanded loudly, pulling his face up with a rough tug on his chin with my right hand. Sherlock’s eyes widened, but the anger was still filling his features.

“If you had shot Moriarty at the pool, both of us would be dead. If both of us were dead, the serial killer would still be out there murdering children.” I said slowly, making sure to keep my voice level. I had dealt with many soldiers who blamed the deaths of their friends on themselves, so I knew how to handle the situation.

“But…kids John. Why is it always kids?” Sherlock asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“I don’t know.” I admitted, allowing sadness to fill my features. Sherlock bit his lip and leaned his head against the door.

“I hate it when its kids. They’re so young. They haven’t had the opportunity to screw up life yet. They actually observe instead of see, they’re pliable, they’re loving…it’s just so wrong John!” Sherlock whispered, blinking rapidly to hold back what I knew were tears. I swallowed thickly before doing the only thing I knew how to do, and I hugged Sherlock again. He stiffened briefly before melting into the touch, leaning so that his shoulder was propped up by my chest, and his head was leaning comfortably against my bad shoulder.

“Well you saved a hell of a lot more kids Sherlock, and that’s all you can ask of yourself. You do what you can and move from there.” I said, rubbing small circles against Sherlock’s shoulder. He nodded once and then just sat there, leaning against me until my stomach growled.

“Come on, let’s get you dinner.” Sherlock said, standing up and offering me a hand. I took it, and he hauled me up.

I didn’t fail to notice that our hands lingered together for just a brief instant more than was required for the motion. I hoped that Sherlock failed to notice the heat that flooded my cheeks promptly afterwards. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know many of you are probably like "WHERE IS THE JOHNLOCK LURRRVE?!" 'cause I labeled this as a Sherlock/John fic. I am trying to make their relationship progress as naturally as possible, so please bear with me. I am promising a fluffy yet angsty chapter next update :3


	7. The First Duet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock hears John play for the first time and is enchanted; John panics when Sherlock suggests playing 'the piece' together.

The next day Sherlock had disappeared for quite a few hours, and since I was thoroughly confident in Mycroft’s tracking abilities, I allowed myself to relax just enough to play clarinet. I rifled through my sheet music, and my fingers rested ever so slightly on the _Romeo and Juliet_ overture. My cheeks flared as I glanced across the living room to take in Sherlock’s violin resting in its usual place, and his currently empty music stand. Wanting to play a piece with him because I thought he was dead was a little different than wanting to play _this_ piece with him because he was very much alive. I immediately shuffled the piece to the bottom of the pile and selected something different: Debussy’s _Premiere Rhapsodie._ I placed the accompaniment CD, which was piano, into the CD player of my laptop and began to play along.

A few minutes into the piece I felt as if someone was watching me, but I hadn’t heard Sherlock come into the flat so I didn’t turn around. However, I jumped and nearly dropped my clarinet when I finished, because somebody started to speak.

“That was fantastic John.” Sherlock said, and I turned around to see him flashing me a small, soft smile. Something about that smile made me want to play the song again to prolong it, since Sherlock smiles were hard to come by.

“How long have you been there?” I asked quietly.

“Since the _poco mosso.”_ Sherlock said, equally as quiet. I cleared my throat awkwardly and shifted from foot to foot before picking up my cleaning cloth and moving to take apart the clarinet. Sherlock’s hand clasped over mine though, and I shot him a confused look.

“No…play again.” he demanded, although it was more of a gentle request than a blatant demand. The strangeness of the act was enough to have me shuffling through my music folder, and this time I pulled out _Concerto in A Major for Clarinet_ by Mozart. Sherlock eyed the piece before nodding in approval, and I began to play. I was a bit nervous about playing in front of Sherlock, but the first few notes came out sweetly, and I began to play a bit more confidently.

“Wait.” Sherlock said, and I lowered my clarinet. He moved across the room and took out his violin before nodding. My hands trembled ever so slightly at his implication, but I started the piece over. This time, instead of skipping over the rests that were written in where the violin and orchestra would play, the living room was filled with the sound of Sherlock playing. I glanced at him, and his eyes were closed, his body swaying from side to side ever so slightly. He had _memorized_ the piece. I managed to wrangle in my astonishment just in time to come in again, and when I began to play and Sherlock had rests, his eyes snapped open to examine me carefully.

When we finished, Sherlock didn’t say anything, but merely smiled again at me ever so slightly before putting away his violin and walking into his bedroom. The door shut softly and I stood in the centre of the living room, feeling rather dumbstruck. Eventually I composed myself enough to clean and put away my clarinet before I headed into the kitchen to make myself a much needed cup of tea.

We didn’t speak of the incident for several days, not until I found Sherlock going through my music.

“What are you doing Sherlock?” I asked almost tiredly. It wasn’t the first time I had found him rifling through my things.

“Looking.” he replied almost boredly, separating the music into two separate piles.

“For?”

“Things you and I can play together.”

My cheeks flared, and the strange look on Sherlock’s face as he glanced at me from the desk confirmed that he had noticed it.

“Why does the idea of a duet make you uncomfortable?” he asked.

“It doesn’t.”

“Then why the red face?” Sherlock asked, standing up holding a piece in his fingers.

“I just…I never played a duet with anyone.” I answered.

“That’s hard to believe considering that you’re rather gifted.” Sherlock said.

“I didn’t have a partner.”

*******

“Well you do now.” I said rather quickly, ignoring the obvious multiple connotations the response could carry. John nodded slowly before sipping at his tea almost uncomfortably. I allowed my eyes to trail across the piece I was holding; _Romeo and Juliet Overture_. It was a beautiful piece, complex, but not extremely so, flooded with wonderful harmonies.

“So what are you looking at?” John asked. I held up the piece and his face went from neutral to scarlet to ghost white in a matter of seconds as he snatched the piece from me.

“Not this one. Never this one.” John stammered, shoving the piece into the top drawer of his desk. I raised an eyebrow. Something about that piece obviously awoke some strange, defensive urge in John, but _why?_

“Why not? It’s good.” I asked, and John just shook his head furiously.

“Because I just…just please. Not that piece.” John pleaded, his face still pale. I sighed heavily and bit back my irritation.

“Fine.” I growled before walking into my room and shutting the door rather loudly.

That night I lay in my bed, my eyes narrowed into a glare as I tried to figure out why John refused that piece. He had kept it, so it wasn’t like he disliked the piece.

_“I didn’t have a partner.”_

“Oh. _OH.”_ I gasped, sitting bolt upright in my bed. _Of course! John **did** have a partner in mind, but he was never able to pluck up the courage to ask her to play with him. He kept the piece because it reminded him of her, but it also causes him a bit of distress. A reminder of failure, potentially the one that got away. John doesn’t want to play it because it makes him feel vulnerable!_

I crept out of my bedroom and took the piece out from John’s desk drawer. He would notice that it had gone missing-he wasn’t that thick-but he wouldn’t question it or grow angry unless I brought it up again. Sure enough, on the back of the piece was a note that had obviously been erased many years ago, but the imprint of the pencil was still on the paper. I took out a magnifying glass and I felt a blush creep up my face as I read the words of one Doctor John Watson before he was a doctor at all.

_Emily,_

_The senior recital is coming up soon, and I would like very much to play a duet with you. From the first time I heard you play I was enchanted, and this is really the only way I know how to go about asking you this. So…will you play with me?_

_J. Watson_

The loop of his cursive, the slight tremor in the words was enough to indicate nervousness. The fact that he erased the note and still had the piece meant that he had never given it to her. _But why would John be afraid to play the piece with me? It isn’t as if there’s any attachment between us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed the update! I'm at college (uni) now, so I won't necessarily be able to update as frequently as I like. comments are fantastic, and thanks for all the kudos guys!!!


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